


There for Me

by Princessedelarue



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Episode s01e02 The Legend of the Gobblewonker, Episode s01e03 Headhunters, Episode s02e14 The Stanchurian Candidate, Episode s02e19 Weirdmaggedon 2: Escape from Reality, M/M, Post Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-05-20 14:18:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6010705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princessedelarue/pseuds/Princessedelarue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2012 is a weird year for Stan Pines, but not for the reasons you’re thinking. </p><p>Well, okay – those too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Season 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys, this is my Valentine’s gift to you – ‘drabbles’ based on the ‘I love you’ prompts sent in by danvssomethingorother, theblindtorpedo, and a couple of anons on tumblr. 
> 
> Somewhere along the way I realized I was actually telling one story with these instead of a collection of smaller ones... so here it is! Split into two parts because I have no self-restraint and I need more time to finish the later scenes. Stay tuned for more!
> 
> [Note that for some (er… most) of the prompts, the scenes are more 'inspired-by' the lines rather than actually incorporating them into the dialogue. I think this makes the story more in-character, but you can be the judge of that.]

**12\. “Take my jacket, it’s cold outside.”**

_December, 2011_

 

Stan doesn’t have a bleeding heart. Crocodile tears don’t faze him. He isn’t impressed by the poor-me tales of selfish bastards on the streets who have more options than most.

But Stan understands genuine need. He understands hopelessness and isolation. And he thinks that that makes him just a little bit responsible for what happens to Old Man McGucket.

That’s why, for a couple of decades now, he’s been secretly leaving crates full of food and water at the town dump.

He does it every few months or so, usually when the weather’s about to turn ugly. He takes a crate from the Gift Shop storeroom, lines it with tin cans from his own stash and clean glass bottles, then packs it in the trunk of his car and drives through town in the still quiet of early morning. He’s sneaky when he sets the crate by the old man’s hovel; all those years he’s done it, he's never been caught.

Yet.

So maybe he’s getting old and that's why he doesn't put the heavy thing down as carefully, quietly, as he used to. Maybe he’s running a little later than normal. Or maybe there’s a tired part of him that actually _wants_ to get caught, just once.

Whatever the reason, Stan’s standing right by the makeshift door to McGucket’s shelter when it opens wide.

They stare at each other for an uncomfortable amount of time.

Then McGucket catches sight of his gift and his expression brightens. “Oh!” he coos, scurrying past Stan’s legs to inspect the wooden box. He circles it a few times and then lifts the lid. There’s such raw delight on his face when he peers inside, Stan doesn’t even scoff at the, “Hot diggity!” he shouts after.

Now would really be a good time for Stan to make his escape. McGucket’s plenty distracted; ass wagging in the air like an excited little puppy, clanging the cans around  for no apparent reason other than maybe liking the noise they make. But there's something off about him, something missing...

“Where the hell’s your coat?”

“Hmm?” McGucket’s whole body tenses as he looks up at Stan, like he’s preparing to run if Stan turns violent.

Shit, that’s exactly what he’s doing.

“Your coat, McGucket,” Stan repeats, a little more slowly. “Where is it?” He moves a step back as he asks it in a subtle sign of peace.

It seems to work well enough; McGucket sounds pretty relaxed as he launches right into the story, “Well there was this cay-ohte what come sniffin’ ‘round my sleepin’ place –”

(Stan's not sure what he means by that – if the coyote got _inside_ the flimsy excuse of a house behind them or was scavenging in the garbage around it – but McGucket’s moved on before he can ask.)

“– so I flapped my arms like an _almighty_ _beast_ and the critter scampered right back to where he done came from!” There's pride in McGucket's voice, but it dampens quickly with the next, sheepish, confession, “But then a claw from that thingamajig over there,” he cries, pointing at a large heap of scrap metal nearby, “done caught me and my scarin’ cape got tore clean in two!”

Stan’s pretty sure he missed something there, but McGucket’s looking at him with big, earnest eyes, so he does his best to sift out the truth from all that drivel. “Your… coat got… ripped?”

McGucket nods enthusiastically. He also shivers as a cold breeze brushes by them, which reminds Stan what the whole conversation had been about in the first place.

Well, there’s only one thing he can really do for that.

“Alright, take mine.”

Stan’s already got one arm out of his parka before McGucket complains, “No, no, fella! Tha's yer coat. Yer gon’ need it.” He shakes his head, looking down at his feet, like he’s too embarrassed to meet Stan’s eye.

Yeah, that’s something else Stan can understand.

“Well, _I_ don’t want it!” he exclaims, holding the coat away from his body like it might sting him. He’s careful not to look directly at McGucket as he does it, but he catches the old man watching him from the corner of his eye. “See, this thing’s _too warm_ for me. I’ve been dying to get rid of it!” Stan gives the coat a quick shake to emphasize his point, then drops it, casually, onto the snow between them. “So if _you_ don’t want it, I guess I’ll just leave it here.”

A quick kick to the ground seals it.

McGucket’s definitely interested now. It’s all in the way he holds his body, legs bent closer to the ground, like he's just waiting to make his move.

Stan has to try very hard not to smile as he turns around, calling, “See y’around, McGucket,” over his shoulder.

After he gets a good ten yards away, Stan glances back to see his huge parka curled around a happy ball of hillbilly.

The sight makes him forget for a second how cold it is without a jacket on.

Then he runs to the car before he can freeze his nuts off.

 

 

**22\. “It’s not heavy. I’m stronger than I look.”**

_January, 2012_

 

January is an interesting time at the Mystery Shack – if by ‘interesting’ you mean 'mind-numbingly boring,' that is. There are no holidays pressuring customers to buy their family’s love, no vacationers looking to bring home _precious memories_ with out-of-focus photos and cheap, tacky crap, and no college kids on break desperate for any kind of entertainment.

The only good thing about the January lull is that it gives Stan a chance to take care of the behind-the-scenes crap he doesn’t have time for the rest of the year; building new displays, 'balancing' the numbers, restocking inventory, etc.

Today he drove out to Portland to pick up a special order. He got some new snow globes of the Mystery Shack (apparently people visiting Oregon aren’t looking to buy snow globes of the Eiffel tower and Empire State building… he should’ve known his supplier’s deal was too good to be true), some more bobble heads (‘cause who doesn’t want to have a handsome devil like _him_ on their dash?), and cardboard boxes with question marks printed on them that he’s going to advertise as super secret 'Boxes o’ Mystery' and then fill with whatever crap he hasn’t sold in a while ( _hey, you ‘heart’ NY_ , _don’t you? Here, have a snow globe_ ).     

So now Stan’s busy unloading crates from the trunk of his car. He’s always found physical labour calming, an excuse to turn his mind off while he lets his body work. That relaxation is his undoing today: when two bony hands dip into the trunk beside his he’s caught so off guard he bangs his head hard against the open lid. “ _Shit!_ ”

There’s a goose egg at the back of his head and he can already feel a headache settling there. It's going to be a big one. The _piercing_ shriek from the man beside him, who dives to the ground and beneath his car before Stan can even blink, doesn’t help.

Wait.

There’s a man under his car.

That’s not normal.

Bending over shoots another spike of pain through his skull, but Stan pushes past it until he’s on his hands and knees and peering at the trembling old man squished against the Stanmobile’s undercarriage. The man’s eyes are already closed, but when he calls his name – “McGucket?” – they somehow squeeze even tighter together. Stan can see his mouth moving, but he’s not so much saying words as he is making pathetic whining sounds against the dirty snow.

The guy’s obviously freaked out.

As much as Stan’d like to yell at McGucket for giving him a concussion, it probably wouldn’t help get him out from under the car. And he’d really rather not deal with hillbilly road-kill next time he has to drive somewhere.

So…

“You can come out, you know. I’m not mad.”

The lie has some effect, at least; McGucket stops his shaking and moaning, starts to look a little more like a human being squished beneath a car instead of a wild animal. But he doesn’t open his eyes. And he doesn’t make any move to get out from his hiding spot.

Well, no one can say Stan didn’t try.

He stands up gingerly, trying to ignore the drums pounding in his head, and goes back to work.

After he’s moved most of the crates from the trunk inside and is just heading outside for the last two, he spots McGucket with a huge one clutched in his spindly arms.

God _dammit_.

This is what he gets for being charitable! Now that McGucket’s figured out where those food packages came from, he’ll probably move on from rifling through Stan’s trash to snatching every box from the Gift Shop he can get his hands on. Maybe Stan should let him have this one, see how he likes chewing on a bobble head or two so he can figure out –

But McGucket isn’t trying to run off with Stan’s merchandise. He’s not trying to pry the crate open either. He’s just walking down the drive way toward the Gift Shop door like he’s actually trying to… help?

It's even weirder when Stan realizes that McGucket has that crazed, panicked look in his eyes he gets when he's being run off by an angry townsfolk, but he's still moving forward, his jaw set in something like determination. When the old man’s climbed the last step onto the front deck, he freezes in place and pushes the crate out in front of him.

Toward Stan.

Well, shit.

Stan moves like he’s about to deactivate a bomb. He’s holding his breath and he’d feel ridiculous for doing it, but he’s pretty sure McGucket’s holding his too. And maybe that shouldn’t make him feel better – Old Man McGucket’s the craziest person he knows in a town _full_ of crazies – but it does.

Still, he’s careful to grab the box near the top, so their hands don’t come anywhere near close to touching.

McGucket lets go, then stands there, just looking up at him with big, wide eyes. Expectantly.

“You’re pretty strong, for a little guy,” Stan says, without thinking.

Even if he had thought of it first, though, he still would have been surprised by the reaction: McGucket _beams_ at him. His grin is so wide it practically touches his ears and his eyes are so light he looks almost young. Even with the liver spots and the rotting teeth.

It’s a nice look on him.

Lucky for Stan, the guy runs off before he can do something totally stupid like _tell him that_.

 

 

**43\. “I picked these for you.”**

_May, 2012_

Every morning for about four months now, Stan’s woken to find a new piece of junk sitting on his back porch, tucked in right beside his newspaper. All small stuff, at first. Buttons, pinecones, bottle caps, rocks – innocuous things that get kicked around sidewalks and blown up on balconies all the time without anyone questioning where they came from. So Stan didn’t really notice that stuff until later.

After things started getting… weird.

The first of these morning offerings that actually got his attention was a book. Its pages were wrinkled, like it’d been left out in the rain over night and its front cover had been torn clean off. It was also, apparently, as old as sin; the ink had faded away to almost nothing. He could only barely make out the title, after flipping through a few pages and piecing together bits that were legible: _The Picture of Dorian_ _–_ or was that supposed to be Darian? If he squinted the ‘o’ sort of looked like an ‘a’ and who’d name their kid Dorian, anyway? – _Gray_.

The simplest explanation was that a visitor dropped the book there by accident (even if it _was_ on the back porch, not the entrance that customers actually used), so Stan just tossed it and tried to forget about it.

He probably would have if there hadn’t been a teacup, chipped but painted with a pretty rose pattern, beside his paper the next day. Or a red tapered candle burned down to only a couple inches of wax, the day after that. Or a warped vinyl record ( _Led Zeppelin_ too; it would’ve been right up Stan’s alley if it was still playable), the day after _that_.

There doesn't seem to be any sort of connection between the objects left at his back door. If it’s a prank, it’s a strange one. If it’s something else… but what else _could_ it be? And what sort of punk would bother spending months pranking _him_ – town darling, Mr. Mystery?

Stan finds out one very early Sunday morning while walking back from the bar in town. He’s a little tipsy, but not drunk, so he's almost sure he’s not imagining the figure crouched in the shadows of his porch.

He feels a flush of panic. His first reaction, a defensive move, is to shout, “Hey!” as aggressively as possible.

The thing sputters up in surprise, awkward limbs pulling it off balance so it lands on the deck with a sharp, “Oof!”

When it doesn’t get up right away, Stan takes a cautious step onto the porch that triggers the sensor of the light above his door. He can see now that the thing lying on his porch is a man. A man he recognizes, with impossibly skinny arms and a long, shaggy white beard.

The crazy bastard himself, Old Man McGucket.

Who’s still lying, frozen still, on Stan’s porch.

“You dead, old man?”

Even though he was mostly kidding, it’s a relief to see McGucket’s eyes move towards him. Shit though, the guy’s pretty dazed. Maybe he hit his head, or –

But suddenly McGucket’s pushing himself to his feet and cursing (or, at least, Stan thinks it’s cursing – he’s never heard anyone say the words ‘sweet potato’ with such a harsh inflection before), and scrambling off the porch. Stan’s too dumbstruck to do anything more than watch as he disappears into the woods, running in that animal-like way he has on his hands and feet.

Okay, maybe Stan did have too much to drink tonight. He'd better turn in. 

If that dead possum is still lying there beside his newspaper in the morning, then he’ll know he didn’t hallucinate the whole thing.

And hey, there’s always taxidermy.  

 

**92\. “I want you to be happy.”**

_June, 2012 (Missing scene from “The Legend of the Gobblewonker”)_

 

Stan’s had a pretty good day, all things considered. The kids came around to fishing after they got bored playing with Soos (or maybe it had something to do with their boat getting wrecked… however _that_ happened) and they’ve got pilfered trout in the cooler ready to fry up for dinner. The only thing that could make this day better is if someone found a shirt to cover Soos’s naked chest. Ugh.

He’s in such a good mood that he finds himself whistling while he ties up the ol’ Stan-o-war. It’s a song his Ma used to sing all the time; folding laundry, doing her nails, dusting the pawn shop (and slipping a few bills out of the register)… Stan’s childhood was pretty much _set_ to the soothing lyrics of Pat Boone as they crackled out of his mother’s throat. Still, it’s been so long since he last heard them – thirty, forty years, or so – it’s a surprise how easy [the tune](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8MCUXitxbTA) comes back to him.

And now that he’s got the words in his head, Stan can’t help it if he sings some out loud (softly, to himself). The kids and Soos are packing up the Stanmobile and there's no one else around to hear him, so he's free to enjoy a moment to himself.

Or so he thinks.

He’s just about at the end (“– _with every wave that breaks_ – _”_ ) when a strange sound from under the dock breaks his concentration.

It’s a wet sound, kind of animal-like, which should fit right in with the setting, but something about it seems off to Stan. After a quick glance at the parking lot to see that the kids are still a safe distance away, he stretches out from where he's been kneeling on the dock until his chest is lying flat on the boards and he can swing his head down without falling into the water.

But he almost dives in anyway when a furry, toothy face greets his.

Stan yanks his head up with a shout. He digs his nails into the wood beneath him while he waits for his heart to slow down. His instincts are telling him to jump up, grab the kids, and _run_ , but some force keeps him glued to that dock.

When the creature – no, _McGucket_ , calls out, “Garsh, y’alrigh’ fella?” from below, Stan realizes that force was probably just common sense telling him that the old guy hiding out under there isn’t actually a threat.

Okay, but now that he knows it was McGucket making that noise, this isn’t really something Stan has to bother himself with. It’s just a crazy old man standing under a dock. In muggy, cold water. And tattered clothes he hasn’t changed out of in years, since he’s pretty much homeless and his grown son wants nothing to do with him anymore…

Damn it.

With a long sigh, Stan slowly lowers his head to get another look at McGucket. The old man’s pretty pathetic with his beard floating in the water around his waist, his arms wrapped tight around a plank, staring meekly up at Stan with red, swollen eyes…

Shit.

“Were you, uh… Were you…?”

 _‘Crying’_ is what Stan should say, but he can’t force the word out. If his father taught him anything, it’s that you don’t talk about that kind of thing – emotions and crap – with other men. So instead, Stan does what he does best: change the subject.

“Hey, you wanna hear a joke?”

McGucket whimpers a bit, but he does lean forward toward Stan, so he takes that as a ‘yes.’

“Well, I went to the bank the other day and asked the teller to check my balance. Know what she did?” Stan pauses dramatically – it's all about the anticipation, you know – before letting the punchline swoop out, “Pushed me!”

The laughter that rips out of Stan nearly _does_ knock him off his balance, but he grips the edge of the dock tight and just lets it go.

It takes him a minute to realize he’s the only one laughing.

Hoping to salvage his pride, Stan starts to explain, “See, ‘cause banks have balances… well, I mean, their accounts do, and –” but then McGucket says something real quiet and he has to shut up to hear him. “Say again?”

There’s a smile on McGucket’s face now, though it’s soft and a little wobbly, kind of like his voice when he repeats, “Thank ya,” to Stan.

Even though it’s not quite the reaction he was going for, it’ll have to do – there’s Soos calling for him, and Stan had better get moving before the kids think he’s talking to his reflection or something.

Still, though…

“You’re gonna get out before you drown, right?” Stan gets an uncertain little nod in response, but when he adds a gruff, “Promise?” McGucket’s head bobs a lot more enthusiastically. He figures that’s as good as he’s going to get, so he takes his leave.

If he maybe lets the car idle until he spots a certain hunched figure crawling onto shore, the kids don’t notice.

 

**79\. “I’ll still be here when you’re ready.”**

_June, 2012 (Missing scene from “Headhunters”)_

 

Well that was embarrassing, blubbering like that in front of Soos and the kids. Over one of Mabel’s freaking arts and crafts projects.

That was made to look like an exact replica of himself. And accidentally like…

Stan exhales a deep, shuddering breath into his hands and tries very hard to block out the image of that headless body lying on his living room floor.

He’s outside now, sitting on the back steps. The night air is cool. He’d thought it’d be refreshing, after that disastrous funeral and an awkward hug from Soos (who took _way_ too long to realize that he was being brushed off), but the dark seems suffocating tonight. Like it’s looming over him, watching –

A hand drops onto his shoulder.

Stan _does not_ scream. He does _not_ flail his arms around like a scared little girl. No, the elbow McGucket gets to the face is a totally intentional move meant to defend Stan against a late-night, potentially monstrous, attacker. Totally respectable.

“Shit, you okay?”

So it’s a stupid question – McGucket’s holding the eye Stan clocked and _yowling_ , he’s obviously _not_ okay – but Stan’s not sure what else to do here. Shit, _shit_ , how bad did he get him?

Stan waits until the sounds McGucket’s making get quieter, till he's just kind of whining in pain, then reaches toward him. He pulls him close by one hip and gently pushes on his arm until the hand holding his eye drops away. Both of the guy’s eyes are watery, but the right one is an angry red and the skin around it is already darkening into a bruise. It's not bleeding or anything, so he probably doesn’t need to see a doctor, but that’s going to be one hell of a shiner.

God, Stan feels like garbage.

“Sorry,” he whispers, like that somehow makes it better. “I – Do you want some ice?”

Stan gets up, ready to lead McGucket inside, but the old man shakes his head.

Well, if he doesn’t want it, Stan’s got nothing else to offer him. “So, what were you doing here, sneaking up on a guy?” he asks instead, smirking half-heartedly. He plops himself back down on the steps when he realizes that standing on the deck makes him tower over McGucket.

(I.e. the poor old man with a screw loose that he just beat up for no reason).

Somehow, the question sparks life back into McGucket. “See I was scoutin’ for signs tha’ them evil wax men insurgent-taters got the drop on you n’ the young’uns,” he explains excitedly, making gestures to go with the story that Stan can’t even begin to interpret. It amazes him how anyone could talk that fast. “Then I saw you sittin’ all by your lonesome and I got to worryin’ ya had _disaster_ strike!” As if to prove this point, he starts wringing his hands.  

It’s crazy, but Stan’s almost tempted to spill his guts – and not just about that dumb, wannabe, statue either.

McGucket looks so honestly concerned right now, like he might actually sympathize if Stan told his whole, awful sob story. Like he might even _care_. And wouldn’t it be nice to get it off his chest after thirty years of being weighed down by guilt? Thirty years of frustration, loneliness, despair – wouldn’t it stand to reason that a guy like McGucket, who hasn’t exactly led a pampered life himself these last few decades, might be able to understand some of Stan’s misery without judging him for dooming himself to it?

But he shouldn’t have to. Stan’s already unloaded enough on McGucket tonight, and that black eye is proof.

So he forces himself to relax, put on his very best smile, and shrug like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Nah, no disaster here.”

Suddenly McGucket’s right _there_ , his nose a hair’s breadth away from Stan’s, perched practically in his lap. The invasion of Stan’s personal space is definitely uncomfortable, but the close-up view he gets of McGucket’s bad eye is even more disturbing.

“Ya sure y’alright?” McGucket whispers (or, at least, he seems to mean to). “We can talk in codes if ya think they might hear.”

Stan actually feels touched before he realizes McGucket’s still talking about the ‘wax man uprising’ his bat-shit crazy mind came up with earlier. The guy is, _sincerely_ , worried about him, though. Because he thinks Stan’s got a dozen homicidal, live and life-sized dolls stashed away in his house, but still.

“No thanks, bud.” He doesn’t even have to fake the sentiment.

McGucket nods gravely. “If ya change yer mind, give me a holler,” he says and this time he does manage to whisper. He stares for another minute, with the tip of his nose just brushing Stan’s cheek (Stan really should push him off already), and then he moves as quickly as he came, slipping away into the night like he was never there to begin with.  

The air feels colder, all of a sudden, so Stan heads back inside.


	2. Season 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it took me longer to finish this than I expected it to, haha. Still, I hope you guys enjoy the second half!
> 
> Oh, and when you get to 66. “Stay over” you’ll probably notice how long it is compared to the other sections; the suspense kind of had a mind of its own, so... Oops. Also, note that that section could sort of be labelled horror, though it doesn’t go into any graphic details. (Honestly, Weirdmaggedon as it was shown on the show was a lot closer to horror than anything in this story).
> 
> Special Note: spoilers ahead for those that haven’t seen the whole series.

 

**98\. “Take a deep breath.”**

_July, 2012 (Sometime after “The Society of the Blind-Eye” and before “Not What He Seems”)_

 

There are many simple pleasures in the life of Stan Pines – the swell of pride he gets from pulling off a flawless scam, the silky texture of a dollar bill between his fingertips, the bustle and thumps of his kids horsing around upstairs – but nothing quite compares to the quiet contentment of sitting on the back porch with a beer in his hand after a hard day's work.

It’s a moment of peace in a hectic life.

So it’s pretty unfair to have that peace disturbed by a black shape sneaking its way closer.

“ _Shit!_ ”

Stan’s shout, coupled with the harsh thud of his bottle landing on the deck, sloshing beer on his slippers, startles the shape enough to cry out, itself. The voice is familiar.

McGucket.

“What the hell do _you_ want?”

It comes out harsher than Stan really means it to, but damn it, his feet are wet and his toes squelch when he shifts to pick up the half-empty bottle and it _is_ all McGucket’s fault…

Still, the guy looks pretty sorry. Crouched beside the stairs, head bowed, like a kicked puppy that’s waiting for its master’s permission to scurry off – damn it.

“Hey,” Stan calls, forcing his tone to be as gentle as it can. He waits for McGucket to look at him before he goes on, “What’s on your mind, slick?”

It takes the old man a few seconds to move, but when he does it’s… surprising. McGucket lifts himself onto the porch, forgoing the stairs, and then he actually _crawls_ his way over to Stan. And it’s not that Stan hasn’t seen McGucket mistake his hands for feet before – he’s just never seen him move quite like this, like he doesn’t _deserve_ to walk upright.

Stan gets a sick, cold feeling in his gut watching him.

When he’s a foot in front of Stan, McGucket stops crawling and kneels with his head lowered again. Then he says, so quietly it doesn’t even register right away, “M’sorry.”

Shit, how pissed did Stan come off, before?

“It was just a beer, bud; it’s fine. I got more.”

There. That should wipe the glum look off the poor guy’s mug and get him back to his normal hootin' and hollerin'.

Except, McGucket’s shaking his head. And looking more glum than ever.

And then, to make things worse, he starts to babble.

“I ‘membered what I done, n’ m’ _sorry_. I shouldna got frus-fras-frust _razzled_ with ya, or done left, o–or, _golly_ , that _society_ kerfunkle!” McGucket’s wringing his hands now. The way he’s going on… he looks about ready to jump out of his skin, but he won’t stop. “Ain’t _no good_ was gonna come from it, n’ ya knew it. _Y’knew_ _it!_ N’ m’ so, so, _sorry!_ ” His words are coming out faster, his breaths getting shorter, and he’s not going to – _never_ going to – _stop_. “But’ch’ya didn’t see what I _saw_ and –”

“Hey, hey, take a breath!” Stan almost puts a hand on McGucket’s shoulder, but decides against it at the last minute. The guy’s close enough to a heart attack as it is; Stan's not going to risk startling him for a friendly pat.

McGucket takes Stan's advice and a long breath in. It hitches at the end, but he tries again. And one more time after that. All the while staring up at Stan like he’s waiting to be told he’s not doing it right.

“Good,” Stan tells him, because now he feels responsible. He leans forward a bit, to meet McGucket’s eyes head on, and says the next part _slowly_ , so there’s no mistaking it, “Look, pal, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, okay? But whatever’s got you worked up, it’s fine. No one’s mad at you.” Then, just to drive it home, “You’re _good_ , McGucket.”

Something comes over the old man's face then – it’s not relief, though the anxious lines around his eyes and across his forehead do fade away. It is better, though, than the anguish that was there just a second ago.

“Don’chu know me?” he asks then, and isn’t that the most ridiculous question in the world?

“Sure,” Stan says immediately, poking a finger out in front of McGucket’s nose. “You’re the guy that’s been diggin’ through my trash the last thirty odd years.” The fondness that creeps into his voice when he says it is strange, but there just the same.

Point well made, Stan starts to pull away, to go back to lounging on the couch like he’d been trying to do before this all started, when McGucket grabs at his right hand. Stan’s yanked forward, awkwardly, and only barely manages to keep their heads from colliding.

The close call doesn’t seem to bother McGucket; he’s too busy playing with Stan’s fingers – pressing his thumb against their knuckles, staring intently as he wiggles them back and forth – to pay much attention to anything else.

Stan gets so caught up himself in watching McGucket that it’s probably a full minute before he pulls his hand away. “Wha –”

“Thaw I had it,” the – the _loon_ mutters to himself, stroking a hand through his scraggily beard. Then he focuses in on Stan again, goes up on his knees and reaches out to pat Stan, fuckin’ _tenderly_ , on the cheek. “I got some more figurin’ t’do.”

Then he scrabbles off the porch and disappears into the night.

Stan stares after him for a while, trying to find some sense in what just happened. Then he gets up, dumps the rest of his beer in the bushes along the side of the house, and goes inside.

 

**93\. “I believe in you.”**

_July, 2012 (Missing scene from “Stanchurian Candidate”)_

 

The kids were right.

He’s going to lose.

Stan’s sweating bullets up on stage. It’s got nothing to do with the hot, glaring lights shining down at him from above and everything to do with the heated glares pointed up at him from the crowd below.

There’s nothing he can do to stop this train wreck; every desperate word that comes out of his mouth makes them angrier and angrier.

Intermission is a goddamn blessing (which doesn’t really sound right, but… whatever). The townspeople finally lose interest in the stage and start chatting amongst themselves, Tyler pulls out his cellphone to do lord-knows-what, Bud hurries off somewhere (probably to stuff his fat ugly face), and Soos walks away looking kind of dazed. For probably the first time in his life Stan’s completely relieved to be left alone. He lets his shoulders relax as he stands there at the podium and tilts his head down so that it looks like he’s actually reading the half-ass notes he scrawled on the drive here. Then he closes his eyes and tries to make his mind go blank.

It works. Too well, in fact – because when a bony hand reaches out and clamps onto Stan’s calf it catches him so off-guard he jumps about a foot in the air and almost pees his pants.

That’d have been a real crowd-pleaser.

Stan looks over the side of the podium, after his feet have landed back on solid ground, into the bright eyes of Old Man McGucket.

“G’luck, Mr. Mayor!” the old coot chirps. His fingers are still clutching Stan’s pant leg and he gives the fabric a cheerful shake as some weird sort of emphasis.

Okay, so McGucket’s not the most popular guy in town. Or the most hygienic. And being seen talking to him probably won’t score Stan any campaign points.

But, damn it, he’s the first really friendly face Stan’s seen all day, and it’s not like anyone’s looking anyway…

“I ain’t the mayor yet, pal,” he whispers as he crouches down by the edge of the stage. “Probably not _gonna_ be, either.”

McGucket had retracted his hand when Stan moved and now he’s using it to twist at the opening of one of those dumb bags of birdseed. He’s frowning, eyebrows drawn together in a nervous white ruffle. “That ain’t no way ta talk, Mr. Pines. Why, I think ya’d make a right fine mayor, if’n ya got the chance.”

He looks so serious, so earnest. There’s a part of Stan that wants to laugh, but it’s just as likely he’ll end up choking instead so he holds himself back. He allows a smile, though. One that curls easily and swells behind his eyes. McGucket eases up, grins himself even, and they stay like that for a little while, just smiling at each other.

The moment’s ruined by a thought that prickles at the back of Stan’s mind.

“What’d you call me?”

Stan hadn’t asked it in a mean way. He hadn’t raised his voice, or scowled, or done anything, really, that could explain the spooked expression that comes over McGucket then. Stan prepares himself for the guy to flip out, maybe run, but McGucket just stands there, staring at him blankly.

Stan should probably say something calming.

But before he can figure out what to say there’s a flurry of motion in front of him as McGucket rips open his bag of birdseed, rams a hand inside, and stuffs a big pile of the stuff into his mouth. The weirdo makes a gurgling, crackling sound as he tries to chew his way around overstuffed cheeks. “Yer go’ meh voh,” is mumbled obscenely, spit-covered kernels flying every which way, and then the old man is gone, scampering off into the crowd.

‘You’ve got my vote.’ That’s what he’d said.

 _That’s_ what the _fool_ said while he _ate_ half his ballot.

 _You’ve got my vote_.

The announcer calls the end of intermission, so Stan stands to take his place back at the podium, with dozens of eyes watching his every move.

His legs are shaking.

 

**66\. “Stay over.”**

_August, 201– er… 2 days since time became meaningless. (Missing scene from Weirdmageddon Part 2)_

 

Stan’s not freaking out. He’s not.

He’s just got indigestion from all the low-quality canned meat he’s been eating.

Sure, the town’s been turned upside-down by floating eyeballs and monsters that’re even bigger and deadlier than usual fare. And yeah, he hasn’t seen the kids in days. But they’re fine, right? Dipper’s got a good head on his shoulders and Mabel’s got people skills – she can charm her way out of any bad situation, no problem! So why would he be freaking out?

It’s not like he hasn’t tried to find them, of course. He has. But every single, _freaking_ time he’s gone out the Shack door lately he’s been chased right back in by something trying to make him its dinner. Or turn him into stone and carry him off to fuck knows where.

Today he had his closest call yet; this… _thing_ got a slimy tentacle around his leg when he’d only made it halfway across the porch and pulled him down flat. If he hadn’t been close enough to grab the doorframe – and somehow activate that magic-unicorn-force-field- _whatever_ , that’s so stupid it shouldn’t even work – he’d have been a goner for sure.

But yeah, the kids are definitely safe, wherever they are.

They have to be.

God, what would he even _do_ with himself if they weren’t? What if one of those eyeballs managed to sneak up on Dipper – wouldn’t be his fault if they got him; those suckers are so fast, it’d only take a second. Or what if Mabel’s trapped somewhere, scared and alone… Or, _shit_ , what if –

Okay, Stan _may_ be freaking out.

Perfect time to get a knock on the door.

Stan reacts without thinking – which is probably the worst thing anyone can do when the world is falling apart around them, but that’s what he does. He screams (all the better to let the creep behind the door know he’s here), flails back into a bookcase (knocking a few cans to the ground, those dents’ll make the food spoil), and squeezes his eyes shut tight (like _that’ll_ stop whatever’s about to burst in from getting him).

But no, it’s the unicorn stuff that _will_. It’s kept every monster away so far, why would it fail, all of a sudden?

And why would a monster even bother knocking?

That’s the million dollar question, right there. Because if it’s not a monster, then what, or who –

The kids.

It could be the kids.

And even if it’s not Mabel and Dipper, it could still be the big kids, Soos and Wendy; the mostly-grown idiots that aren’t supposed to be his responsibility but still kinda are. And would he ever be glad to see them!

Heck, even seeing Ford at the door would be a relief, arrogant jerk that he is. If anyone could help Stan find the others, bring them home safe, it would be his brainiac brother.  

He’s halfway to the door, when the knock comes again. Louder. More insistent.

Angry?

What if it isn’t the kids, or Ford, or anyone he’d be remotely happy to see in the middle of an apocalypse? Stan knows one thing for sure: desperate times make for desperate people. And desperate people make bad choices.

Like rioting. Forming gangs. Stirring up chaos for the sake of chaos.

Opening that door is a risk, but one Stan has to take. His hand has already curled around the knob, so he makes his body follow through with the movement – lets his muscles make the tough choices like always.

While he cracks the door open, _slowly_ , he keeps one arm braced tight against the jam, ready to block whatever gets thrown at him from coming inside…

“Stan!”

And suddenly he forgets all about being cautious – he flings the door open wide, huffs out an adrenaline-heavy laugh, and pulls McGucket into a bone-crushing hug.

Stan holds his small friend to his chest for a long minute, enjoying the contact, until McGucket starts wiggling against him like a tiny kitten trying to escape an overeager child… and, okay, that analogy’s pretty fair. So he lowers the old man back to his feet and loosens his hold.

But he still keeps both hands on McGucket – one at the small of his back, underneath the suitcase he has strapped there, and the other sliding around to cup a frail hip – because there’s a part of Stan, an all too rational part given the madness of the world outside, that doesn’t trust his eyes alone to know what’s real.

McGucket seems a little suffocated by the arrangement, but he only pushes back from Stan for a second before relaxing, crumpling the jacket of Stan’s suit in a loose fist, and giving him a weak smile. Stan grins back at him.

It’s a nice moment.

One that’s cut far too short.

Then there’s a low, ominous rumbling from the North, near the main drag of town. It shakes the ground beneath their feet and pierces the fuzzy cloud that had settled in Stan’s brain the second he’d opened the door to McGucket’s happy, liver-spotted face.

They’re outside. In the open. Exposed. One of those damn flying eyeballs could have swooped down and picked them up in no more than a, well, blink, and Stan woulda had to spend an eternity locked in embrace with the town nutcase.

(Who, okay, is actually pretty interesting to talk to and sweet and all, but none of that stuff would really matter to a couple of mindless statues.)

(Shit, what if you still keep conscious after you’re turned? What kind of hell –)

A frantic hand tapping his cheek pulls Stan’s panic-fried brain back to the present.

“Stan! _Stan!_ ” He focuses in on McGucket’s shiny blue eyes and watches them crinkle in relief. “That’s it - we gotta _go_ , big fella! Getch-yer kin!”

Go? What does he –

Another rumble vibrates through them. It’s louder than the last. _Closer_.

Stan slides one hand up to grab at McGucket’s forearm, ready to drag him inside where it’s safe, when a muted voice calls out, “ _McGucket, you idiot, let’s go!”_ from somewhere to their right. They both glance over and Stan can just make out the top of Sheriff Blubs' head peeking out of the bushes past the porchrail. Blubs rises up a little more, whips around in a cautious sweep of their surroundings, and then hisses at them, “ _Quit making out and hurry up, or we’re leaving without you!”_

McGucket’s tugging on Stan’s shirt now, whining something, trying to get his attention, but Stan’s too busy counting all the branches twitching and leaves rustling in the woods around them.

Shit, McGucket brought a whole posse with him. Dozens of townsfolk, hiding in the bushes.

About to be smushed.

“– gotta keep movin,’ Stan, _please_ –”

The ground shakes, there’s a small, terrified squeak from a few yards away, and it’s all just _too much_.

“ _Hey!_ ” Stan barks out to the void. He’ll feel bad about startling the crazy old man in his arms later, after he’s finished saving both their hides. “If you came with _this_ guy,” and if he’s already putting off guilt, why _not_ hoist McGucket in the air, one arm scooped under and around a leg to seat him on Stan’s bicep, like he’s a toy to be thrown around and shown off, “then get your butt in this Shack, _right_ now.”

There’s murmuring around them and McGucket stops squirming against his shoulder, so Stan gives it a second.

But the ground isn’t so much shaking anymore as it is swaying, or maybe that’s just the tops of the trees across the way, where a dark shape’s coming into view in the distance –

“I said _NOW!_ ”

A mass of people rush forward from out of the (literal) woodwork, so Stan steps aside to let them through the door – Blubs, the woodpecker guy, a biker, some kids (and doesn’t it make his heart clench to see them, but none are _his_ ) – and then there’s a whole herd of _creatures_ coming at him; real-live garden gnomes, a unicorn, a giant… _bull_ - _man_. He’s getting ready to move back, block the way, slam the door, when McGucket throws his upper body awkwardly against Stan’s face and shouts, “Wait!” in his ear.

It sets him back a few steps and since, by the time he’s untangled McGucket and put him down on the porch, the monsters are already inside, past Ford’s security system, and there’s definitely something a whole lot bigger and scarier splintering through the trees nearby, Stan decides to let it go. He shoves McGucket through the door and swings it shut behind them without once looking back.  

They’re safe.

(But those _things_ are in the Shack now. What kind of trouble are they gonna get up to? And that they got in, in the first place – is the force-field even still _working_?)

“You got a back way out of here, Pines?”

Stan looks up at Blubs’ voice to a crowd of people and creatures, mixed together like it’s no big deal, turned to him with expectation and fear plain on their faces.

McGucket’s still there at his side; his fingers closed tight over Stan’s left wrist. When Stan glances down into his friend’s wide, watery eyes, McGucket whispers, “Do you?” in just the most… _forgivingly_ resigned voice that Stan feels his heart break to imagine how hopeless the situation must seem to him, to them _all_.

All hell breaks loose before he can correct them.

Later, Stan won’t be able to say whether it was the shadow darkening the room or the ear-splitting shriek seeming to come from all directions at once that happened first, but it could be either or both that sets everything off.

The screams, shouts, _howls_.

Bodies flinging themselves to the ground, behind furniture, into tight balls of despair.

“Outa my way!” “ _We’re gonna die – we’re gonna die –_ ” “– we  _never_ should’ve trusted –” “– _we’re gonna_ –”

McGucket pressed into Stan’s side, face buried in his ribs, sobbing, quietly, under all the other noise swelling the air around them.

And then the shadow moves away and the walls get lit with all sorts of strange symbols Stan’s seen before.

Ford’s magic, working just fine.

It takes some time for the room to settle down after that, but they get there; a few catching the glow on the walls before it fades away, nudging the others, shushing the ones still screaming, until finally everyone’s back to staring at Stan like he has all the answers.

Well, he’s got more than they do, that’s for sure.

McGucket’s the first to speak, calling, “Stan?” from where he’s still smushed against his side.

(And in a way that Stan feels like he should wonder about, but there’s no time for that now, not when he’s got all of these people staring at him, _expectantly_ ).

“Alright, listen,” Stan starts, but then he doesn’t really know where to go from there. He rubs sweat off the back of his neck while he searches for the charm he had once, that long-gone charisma, the confidence he’d needed to get things done when the world was against him.

He glances down at McGucket’s red, dirty, tear-stained face, that’s somehow, foolishly, filled with trust.

Then he straightens himself to take the crowd before him head on.

“This Shack, it’s protected from all that weird sh–” Stan pauses to look over the three little girls huddled together, trembling, by the stairs, before continuing, more softly, “– _stuff_ , outside. If you stay in here, you’ll be safe. All of you.”

And if he lets gaze linger, pointedly, on the bull-man and his entourage a little too long, it’s not exactly that he doesn’t mean it. Just… that he’s got his priorities straight.

That leads him back to McGucket, who’s wearing the most cautious smile Stan’s ever seen on him but is so much lighter for it, to finish with a plea that only his friend can hear: “Stay.”

 

**86\. “You’re important too.”**

_August, 2012_

 

Stan’s _pretty_ sure this is the first time he’s ever driven his car up that long, winding driveway, walked past those stately marble pillars, or rapped his knuckles against the solid mahogany door in front of him, but it doesn’t feel like it. The old mansion is huge and dark, and it should really be intimidating, but instead it feels welcoming and familiar.

He hopes that’s just the kind-hearted hillbilly who’s living there now rubbing off on the place and not his fuzzy, worn-out brain trying to tell him something.

The door opens and that thought only barely manages to settle in while Stan’s being pulled inside by a beaming, _vibrating_ , Fiddleford.

“Stanley! I’m so glad ya came ‘round ta see me! Wanna tour a’ my new shed?”

Before Stan can say ‘no’ (because he’s got something he really needs to get to and the house is _enormous_ , though he’d be lying if he said he didn’t find Fiddleford’s enthusiasm endearing), he’s being led by hand down the long entry hall.

“That there’s my thinkin’ corner,” Fiddleford explains, pointing to a little desk covered in blueprints and strange looking metal devices by a window under the main staircase. He swivels his body around, and Stan’s right along with it, to face a wide open doorway, “and this here’s my sittin’ room!”

Stan’s either about to cry or burst out laughing. Maybe both.

It can’t be helped. One look into the expansive ballroom, beautifully lit by floor to ceiling windows and blanketed by finely-polished hardwood floors, at the small packing crate and overturned washtub that make up its only furniture and he’s ready to lose it. All that luxury, _wasted_ …

But then there’s Fiddleford beside him, looking happy and proud of his salvaged chairs and terrible use of space, and Stan manages to keep his trap shut before he can ruin it for him. God, the man deserves to live his life however the hell he wants in this big, warm, _safe_ house – how can anything that puts a smile on that weathered old face be a waste?

Fiddleford’s getting ready to lead him upstairs – “Wait’ll y’see my sleepin’ loft!” – but Stan’s quick to dig his heels in to keep him still.

“Hey, could we sit a sec?” Stan asks when Fiddleford blinks up at him. “I got something I wanna ask you.”

At least Fiddleford rolls with it; first bouncing over to perch on the crate, then beaming up at Stan like he’s expecting great things.

If only Stan had this much faith in himself…

But then, he wouldn’t have any business here, if he did.

Stan goes to sit down, carefully, on the washtub. He clasps his hands between his knees and stares at them while he works out what he’s got to say.

It takes a few false starts before he manages, “After you used the…” and he still can’t quite get the right words out, but he pushes on anyway, hoping Fiddleford can keep up, “When you started remembering… things.” He chances a glance up and finds Fiddleford watching him with an intensity that doesn’t make this any easier. “How – how’d you know any of it was… real?”

Fiddleford, bless him, puts a lot of effort into coming up with an answer; Stan can almost see the gears turning behind his eyes, going in time, maybe, to the hand he's combing through his beard, from his chin to part way down his chest, out and repeat. But even his genius, off-kilter brain can’t untangle what Stan's was trying to say with his bumbling attempt. “What d’ya mean?”

It would be funny how terrible Stan is at getting this out, if it didn’t feel like his whole world was riding on it. He takes a deep breath before trying again, “Like, if someone’s tellin’ you a story, something that _really_ happened.” God, he’s already failing. “And they expect you to remember it for yourself.” Fiddleford gives him a quick nod that gives him enough steam to finish, “How do you know you’re not just remembering what they told you? Like, picturin’ it in your head?”

“I don’t think ya do,” Fiddleford replies carefully. He shifts on the crate to be closer to Stan and lays a hand hesitantly, shyly, on top of Stan’s knee. “Why’s it matter to ya?”

That, at least, comes easy. “The kids. Ford.” Stan smiles, but it’s crooked and strained. There’s no way Fiddleford doesn’t notice. “I just want to be _their_ Grunkle Stan, you know? The one they remember.”

And the one that _remembers_ , he doesn’t say. The one that already knows the punchlines to their stories and catches on right away when something’s bugging them, because he’s already _been there_ and they can count on him to keep all that stuff locked up safe for them when they need it – when they need _him_.

He’s lost himself in his despair, in the worries that have kept him tossing and turning every night since the apocalypse-that-didn’t-happen, so it doesn’t hit him that Fiddleford’s gotten up from his seat until he’s standing between Stan’s thighs and cupping Stan’s face with both frail hands. The touch is gentle, but there’s something angry in the look Fiddleford gives him.

It’s more than a little intimidating.

Stan can’t look away.

“You listen here,” Fiddleford begins, although he _must_ know he’s already got Stan’s full attention. “Y’ain’t what’cha remember. Yer _you_.” His fingers press a little tighter against Stan’s cheeks for emphasis. Then they loosen their hold and his thumbs make slow strokes through his stubble. “Yer _loyal_ and _clever_ and _kind_. Even if ya’d never a’ gotten yer memories back, you’d still’ve been important t’yer family.” The fire, the fierce determination, has already faded from Fiddleford’s eyes, leaving them soft, affectionate. “Yer a good man, Stan Pines.”

There’s a lump in Stan’s throat that he tries his best to swallow, but the words, “You’re important too, Fidds,” still come out sounding wet.

Neither moves for a long minute.

Then it's Fiddleford who leans in first; he’s right there, after all. He takes a moment to simply breathe against Stan’s mouth and since Stan’s already closed his eyes in anticipation he doesn’t get to see when the decision is made to close that distance. Just gets caught by the sweet thrill of Fiddleford’s lips pressing against his own.

He knows, though, when Fiddleford finally let’s himself have this.

It’s after Stan’s curled his fingers through the hair at the back of his neck, after he's pushed him in closer with a hand on the small of his back, after he’s tucked Fidds’ bottom lip between his own. It’s the sigh that Stan blows against Fiddleford’s cheek – long, weary, and relieved – that makes him finally let go, relax his tight shoulders, melt against Stan’s chest.

It’s a job well-done and a kiss well-earned.

 

**Bonus: 49. “Call me when you get home.”**

_March, 2013_

 

Stan doesn’t let him get more than one knock in before he’s swung open the door.

He’d been waiting anxiously in the hall since they hung up, and for six long months on a boat with no cell reception before that, and hell for thirty lonely, miserable years before _that,_  all for this very moment – why should he waste even a second of it?

Fiddleford seems to have the same idea; Stan hasn’t finished saying hello before his arms are full of excited hillbilly and his mouth is captured in a sloppy, _wonderful_ kiss.

It’s possibly the best damn greeting they’ve ever had.

And that’s saying something.


End file.
